


How Golden His Halo

by staticsighs



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Case Fic, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Everyone is Trans, Hank is a Good Dad to an awful group of disaster trans, M/M, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink, RK900 goes by Nines in this fic, Slow Burn, Trans Characters By Trans Creator, Trans Connor, Trans Gavin Reed, Trans Male Character, Trans RK900, mentioned drug use, nothing explicit though and it's barely mentioned but worth a warning, potential chapter by chapter tags to be applied for triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticsighs/pseuds/staticsighs
Summary: Connor's starting to notice things about Hank. More than usual: not just the way he smiles, or the way he speaks to Connor when they're alone, but the way he praises Connor for a job well done, or that strange golden glow that seems to be surrounding Hank every time Connor scans him...





	1. Coin Recalibration

Connor’s fingers twitch and flex over empty space, his fingers tense and searching for his coin even as his eyes scan over the yellow police tape and take note of the crime scene in front of him. He turns back to Hank, who is speaking with another officer, and blinks at the golden glow that has surrounded his partner, wreathing him in sudden sunlight.

He tries to dismiss it; there are more important matters at hand, and he’s got work to do. Still, the glow remains as he approaches Hank, only fading away when he finally gets the other man’s attention.

“Should we go in, Lieutenant?” Connor blinks, head cocked slightly, one hand in his pocket and the other still listlessly fidgeting. Hank glances down at the empty space between his fingers and huffs.

“Where’s that little…y’know, whatever, you keep around for that? Don’t tell me you lost it, Con. Can you even lose shit?”

“You’re evading my question, but I’ll bite; I happen to have lost a left sock yesterday, although I’ll grant you there’s a higher probability that Sumo reclaimed it for his laundry treasure trove than the sock simply vanishing due to carelessness. I am rather careful.”

“You are, aren’t you? I know. You’re good at this shit, Con.”

Hank clasps him on the shoulder, playful and warm, and that’s where he’d _like_ to think the trouble starts, but if he’s being truthful it probably can be traced back to when Connor climbed in through his window and into his house, and never really left. Still. This is new.

Connor’s skin vibrates, the thin surface layer rippling like a mug of coffee being swirled, and he sucks in a soft little breath. Hank pauses, his forehead straining against his brows as he raises them, but says nothing about the response.

“To answer,” Connor says, and there’s a longer pause than normal there, for someone that doesn’t technically need to breathe, but he presses on, “your question, I—I have been thinking of replacing it with something more. Engaging. Or ridding myself of it entirely.”

“Dare I ask why?” Hank says, ducking under the yellow tape over the door and beckoning for Connor to follow.

“I was worried it makes me stand out,” Connor says, his LED flickering in a swirl of cyan simmering into gold, a gradient of confusion. “Makes me less…human? That’s what we’re all trying to do now, I think?”

“You’re not human, Con, who gives? Just do your goddamn coin thing,” Hank grunts, rubbing the side of his face. “You don’t have to be human. But you _do_ have to do your job right now, because I’ve got to go talk to Reed.”

Connor makes a face, brief and muted, but it’s still enough out of the ordinary for him that Hank cracks a smile. “Oh, do I detect a hint of hostility? I thought you wanted to “let bygones be bygones.’”

“I did. I do? I must. I mean. That’s not—I prefer when you’re here to process the scene with me, that’s all,” Connor defends himself. “A second pair of eyes.”

“I’ll be back in five, promise,” Hank says, and he doesn’t even really let Connor’s words sink in until he’s standing out on the back porch of the house, watching Gavin fidget with an unlit cigarette and blurts out, “wait, what?”

Gavin lifts his gaze from the cigarette to Hank, blinking. “What?”

“Oh, no, I just—not you, Gav. Something else,” Hank brushes it aside and pulls his hair back into a ponytail with a sigh of exertion. “So, what’s the issue here?”

“Poisoned. Guy’s on his way to the hospital, last I heard, which was fifteen minutes ago. Nines took a look at the guy’s living room and determined he’d been using compromised Red Ice, so this officially went from ‘my problem’ to ‘our problem,’ and he did that weird robo-telepathy bullshit to get you and your Aibo over here, I think. I mean, you’re here, yeah? Guess it worked.”

“Okay, motormouth, fuckin’ thank you,” Hank sighs, and Gavin snorts. “Also, Aibo? Told you not to say that shit. Not fair to the kid, or Nines.”

“Hey, it’s an upgrade from calling him a hunk of plastic all the time,” Gavin defends himself. “You know what Aibos are, don’t you? You’re older than me, even.”

“No, I don’t know what a fuckin’ Aibo is, why does it matter—“

“It’s a robotic dog, Lieutenant. Detective Reed fancies himself a comedian.”

Hank manages not to visibly flinch at RK900’s presence behind him, but it’s by the skin of his teeth, if he’s being honest. RK900 tilts his head slightly, mimicking Connor, but his eyes are cool and sharp as they sweep both men up and down, scanning them with a flick of his pupils. “Aibo dogs were introduced to the general market on May 11, 1999, and new editions were released by Sony up until 2006, with updates to the OS ceasing in mid-2016. I believe CyberLife has a similar model available as of today, but—“

“Oh my god, seriously? Fucking hell, this isn’t _101 Dalmatians_ , Reed, fuck off.”

“It’s a compliment!” Gavin defends himself. “Nines thinks it’s a compliment, right, Nines?”

“I think you’re an idiot, but it’s amusing to watch you fumble for references to existing robotics,” RK900 clarifies. Hank snorts as Gavin sputters. “I will agree with one assessment, and that is that my predecessor is certainly more on the level of a barking toy on wheels than anything of my caliber.”

Hank waves him off with a sigh. “Okay, but he’s your little brother, you _get_ to say that. Gavin, for reasons I have yet to entirely understand, Connor is _trying_ to like you, so if you could just try to _be_ likeable, I’d really fucking appreciate it, and I’m your boss, so consider that an order, brat.”

Gavin wrinkles his nose, but drops further protest in favor of a more interesting subject. “Little brother? Nines got made later, didn’t he? So _you’re_ the little brother, yeah, Nines?”

RK900’s LED flashes bright red. “ _Excuse_ me. I was made to finish the job my predecessor started and failed to complete. Ergo, I am the finished product, and should be considered the superior version.”

Gavin raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s how siblings work.”

“You’re an only child, what would _you_ know?”

“Ouch, hurtful. Hank, Nines is harassing me!”

“You’re a grown-ass man, brat, deal with it.” Hank rubs his temples. “Any signs of a struggle, or any stockpile of drugs with intent to sell?”

“Negative, Lieutenant. And we cannot arrest a man simply for using drugs in the privacy of his own home. If we can prove his drugs were tampered with and sold to him under false pretenses, however, we can pursue a case against his dealer.”

“What he said,” Gavin yawns, cracking his jaw. “I mean, we could give him a citation for not utilizing one of the dispensaries, but like, Red Ice isn’t an illegal drug anymore in and of itself, hey?”

Hank frowns. “No, it’s not. But it’s not the same drug anymore, is it?”

“Correct. CyberLife decided to turn their efforts towards making a substance similar to Thirium and mass-producing a legal, safer alternative to the ‘street’ version of Red Ice.”

“Did you just use air quotes for the word _street?_ Jesus fucking hell, Nines.”

“I thought it would help me relate my point. Don’t impede my attempts to adapt to socialization and interaction, Detective, or I will handcuff you to the car door at the next crime scene.”

“Oh, yeah, you’d _want_ me in handcuffs, wouldn’t you, ya fuckin’ Gundam—“

“Those aren’t even _tangential_ to androids, Reed, they’re _mechas—“_

“Hey! Idiot and ice queen! Eyes on the fuckin’ prize!” Hank snaps his fingers in front of them both. “Do we know if this is street or factory Red Ice?”

RK900 whirrs to attention first. “Factory, in all likelihood. CyberLife was able to make the drug for a fraction of the price, and it’s available at multiple dispensaries in legal form. No one’s going to be buying something twice as expensive, and illegal to boot.”

“Yeah, but if it’s clean and legal, then why the shit did he OD on it? Do we know if it was deliberate or accidental yet?”

“Unclear. I believe my predecessor is analyzing the scene as we speak. That, and a scan of the victim, either living or deceased, will provide further answers.”

“And none of that answers why he’d do it at home, either, ‘cause if it’s legal then he shouldn’t have anything to hide,” Hank sighs.

“I find that is not often the perception of the situation for most humans, Lieutenant. They do enjoy their privacy, though they are bad at protecting it. Detective Reed’s browser history, for example—“

Gavin grabs RK900 by his jacket and shoves his elbow into his mouth to keep him from saying anything else, so Hank lets them squabble on the back porch and returns to Connor, sitting cross-legged on the living room, his fingers in his mouth.

Hank can’t help but stare at the way his soft, sweet pink lips pout around the crook and flex of his fingers pressed against his tongue for organic analysis, but he’s gotten better at hiding the way he ogles, so he manages to talk as he watches Connor’s throat bob in an imitation of a swallow. “Find anything interesting, kid?”

Connor pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a wet pop, blinking up at Hank with dark doe eyes. “Yes, actually! A chemical structure I haven’t seen in strains of Red Ice since a legalized formula was perfected and brought to market. Is that helpful?”

“Absolutely, kiddo,” Hank says, watching Connor’s glistening fingers. “You did great.”

Connor’s LED blips gold for a split second, but before Hank can ask what’s wrong, he shakes his head and continues on. “I also received a notification from the hospital. Our victim is going to be all right, though it will be a day or so before he’s awake and alert enough to answer any questions.”

“That’s…real helpful, kiddo,” Hank says, and it’s probably, definitely, _maybe_ because of Reed’s Aibo crack a few minutes ago, or maybe just because Connor sitting on the floor and practically wiggling his hips and ass for his approval reminds him of Sumo when he hears the jingle of his leash in Hank’s hand, but as he walks past Connor to leave the living room, he brushes the top of his head with a friendly pat. At least, _he_ thought it was friendly, but Connor seizes up like he’s been struck.

He tries to exclaim with shock, but his vocal processors glitch out and stutter, so it slows the gasp down and stretches it out into something close to a moan. Hank jerks his hand back and hurriedly yanks his hair out of his ponytail, ducking under the crime scene tape and booking it out to the front yard, mumbling a hasty apology under his breath.

For a minute or two, until his little brother enters the living room with an irate Detective Reed huffing and puffing and spitting at his heels like a cartoon cat, Connor sits on the floor and blinks once or twice, his LED spinning as he processes the situation. He’s almost, _almost_ sure he understands, but there’s one thing in particular he doesn’t get—

What had Hank felt the need to apologize for?


	2. Conversational

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has conversation with multiple people over the course of a day, but every single one leaves him with more questions than answers.

Connor fidgets outside in the pristine white hallway, his observational analysis helpfully alerting him to the presence of so many different strains and species of bacteria that he’d stopped trying to count them, and twists his coin between his fingers, going over his prepared list of questions in his head.

“Never been in a hospital before, have you, kiddo?”

Connor perks up at Hank’s voice in his ear, turning around and relaxing at the warmly-lit welcome sight of the older man at the head of the hallway, his LED cooling from its heated gold to a calm cyan as he stows his coin in his pocket. “No, Lieutenant. I think it’s for the best. How does any human survive a visit here? There’s so much potential for infection!”

“Yeah, but everyone here’s job is to treat that shit, it’s fine,” Hank waves him off. “You wanna go in first, I take it?”

“I did,” Connor glances aside, his LED flickering between blue and gold for a brief second. “I mean, I should! But…”

Hank raises his eyebrows. Connor scrunches his nose up briefly after consulting his microexpressions database. “What if…what if you fall ill while I’m in there, Lieutenant?”

“Con,” Hank sighs, but even though he’s shaking his head and rolling his eyes, there’s something overall pleased about his posture and expression that Connor can’t quite pinpoint. “Jesus Christ, kiddo, I’ve survived half a decade of hard drinking and near-constant stress and sleepless nights for triple that. A fuckin’ cold going through a hospital isn’t gonna be what knocks me on my ass.”

“I—“ Connor clamps his mouth shut, though his lower lip is still poised to pout. “Very well. Please be wary of the infection risk, Lieutenant, do not touch anything, and prepare to stop on our way back to the precinct for immune-boosting drinks and something to replace the breakfast you didn’t eat this morning.”

“Would you just go and talk to the kid already?”

Connor clicks his tongue at him, a gesture he’s picked up from observing multiple humans talking to their children or misbehaving spouses, and before he has time to think about why _that_ was what he chose, he’s twisting the doorknob open to the hospital room and waving hopefully at the figure laying in bed.

“Hi, Omar. I’m Connor, I work with the DCPD? I’m Lieutenant Anderson’s partner. It’s nice to meet you.” He gestures to the chair beside his bed. “May I sit?”

The young man in bed gives him a baffled look. “Sure. Why’d you even ask?”

“For the sake of decorum,” Connor explains, sitting down in the chair and crossing his legs at the ankle. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, really. Just tired.” Omar rubs the side of his face. “Hey, just gotta ask, am I in trouble?”

“No, not at all. You weren’t doing anything illegal. Though it _is_ highly discouraged to use Red Ice anywhere but at the injection sites at dispensaries, it’s not illegal to do so.” Connor tilts his head and gives him a look calculated for maximum tender interest. “May I ask why you used it at home?”

Omar glances aside. Connor watches anxiety and confusion and panic spread in ripples over his face before he settles down, the corner of his mouth still twitching, pursed. “Tell you the truth, I get really anxious when I gotta go inject. I mean, I’m glad CyberLife made the stuff legal, but the guys they got manning the dispensaries are—how do I put this?—huge assholes.”

Connor blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Like, I dunno, they’re shocked a bunch of addicts might want a safe place to shoot up? Stupid shit. And they really gotta run the rehab aspect of it better, the meeting schedules change all the fuckin’ time, stuff gets moved around without telling anyone, y’know.” Omar waves his hand dismissively. “Still better than using it before the revolution. Wild, huh?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest with you. I wouldn’t know.” Connor leans forward. “May I ask if you know of any others that agree with your assessment of the Red Ice dispensaries?”

“Yeah, most of the guys in my neighborhood who use the place feel the same way. There’s a few who take it a little too far, though.” Omar furrows his brow, watching Connor’s face. “You mind if I talk about android stuff? I don’t wanna come off like I’m acting out of pocket.”

“Out of—oh, I’m sorry. No, not at all. I appreciate you asking.” Connor folds his hands on his lap. “You don’t have an issue with my presence here, do you?”

“No, not at all, you’re fine,” Omar reassures him, shaking his head. “It’s just, most of us don’t mind the changes CyberLife made to Red Ice—makes it safer to use, regular dosage schedules are nice, and some folks are even trying to wean themselves off the stuff, which is really only a thing ‘cause of the dispensaries, but there’s some talk about how it was better when it was made from freshly harvested Thirium, instead of synthetic stuff.”

“Like the kind that regulates my systems.” Connor pauses. “I see. Does it truly make that big a difference?”

“You know the kind of people who say watching DVDs or VHS tapes is better than streaming shit? Even though it’s the same stuff onscreen?”

“Um. No.” Connor lifts his head. “I’ll ask my partner about that. He would know.”

“Ah, right, sorry. Basically, it doesn’t really make any damn difference, but some people insist CyberLife’s holding out on them. They want them to start making Red Ice with ‘real’ Thirium again. Don’t know how they think they’d get that, though. Doubt any android would be lining up to donate.”

“I don’t think so either, to be truthful with you,” Connor worries at his lower lip. “Thank you for explaining this to me, by the way. You’ve been very helpful, and I appreciate your perspective on the situation. May I ask you another question?”

“Shoot.”

“I analyzed the remains of your Red Ice dosage when I was called to the scene. There’s an irregular chemical component in there that I believe was responsible for your overdose, given that your remaining dosage levels are consistent with your prescription and there’s no sign of abuse. May I have the address of your dispensary? I’d like to go speak with the staff and see to this issue. I also recommend having an analysis done of your next prescribed dose before taking any. I do not want to see any further harm come to you.”

“You can tell all that from a little mess on the carpet? Damn.”

Connor beams. “My little brother thinks otherwise, but I really am quite adept at my job.”

“Yeah, guess you wouldn’t have stayed with the DCPD after everything if you weren’t.” Omar leans forward, gesturing to the night stand beside his bed. “Gimme a pen, I’ll write it down.”

Connor folds up the scribbled down address carefully and stows it in his jacket pocket. “I really do appreciate your time. Take care, Omar. Check in with any close friends or family before your next dosage, if you can’t make it to the dispensary.”

“Thanks, man. I will.” Omar rubs nervously at his wrist. “Can you tell a nurse on your way out to bring me some water, though? I’m thirsty as hell.”

Connor’s LED circles and glows brighter for a brief second. “Of course.”

Hank’s already waiting by the door with a bottle of soda from the vending machine when Connor opens it. He glances down at it and makes a face. “Lieutenant. This is not ideal hydration given Omar’s condition.”

“It’s got sugar and shit in it, it’s like. Replenishing or some shit. I dunno, I’m not a doctor,” Hank nudges past Connor and tosses Omar the soda. “Don’t mind him, he’s no fun. Thanks for the lead, kiddo.”

Omar twists the cap off the top of the soda with an amused glance at Hank. “You know I’m twenty, right?”

“I’m fifty, so you’re still a kid. Take the soda and stay out of trouble,” Hank grouses, but he makes sure Omar’s settled in bed with the soda before shooing Connor out of the room, trailing after him as Connor reaches the elevator and hits the call button.

“Got a dispensary address?”

“Mhm. I learned a lot about the culture surrounding the new Red Ice. Would you like me to inform you?”

“I didn’t go far, I heard you. It’s interesting, though,” Hank huffs, sticking his hands in his pockets. “It’s so normalized now. I just—I haven’t really adjusted yet.”

Connor furrows his brow. “Forgive me. I have been made aware of your prior involvement in the past decade’s Red Ice cases, but I did not make the connection between your concerns here and those past experiences.”

“Kiddo, don’t apologize. You’re okay,” Hank steps into the elevator. “Hey, before I forget—you did good in there, Con. Real good. First time you’ve interviewed someone since you went deviant, yeah?”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow as he consults his memory briefly. “Oh. You’re correct. I hadn’t realized. Hm.”

Hank fidgets in the elevator next to him for a brief second as Connor sinks into his thoughts. He raises his hand like he’s going to cuff his shoulder gently again, but remembers yesterday’s incident and settles for adjusting the back of Connor’s jacket as the elevator doors open.

“It’s okay, Con. You did great.” Hank praises him. “We should probably get you a new jacket at some point to celebrate, though. You still dress like a disaster.”

Connor doesn’t respond for a minute. He’s trembling just slightly under his jacket, too light for Hank to notice, but his LED is still glowing gold, and doesn’t settle back down again until Hank’s opened the car door for him and he’s climbed inside, letting Hank fiddle with the radio as they drive down to the closest diner to the precinct in soft, smothering silence.

…

There’s other cases they’re in charge of handling when they get back, and Hank has fifteen detectives’ reports to look over and sign off on, so they make plans for visiting the dispensary at a later date, which leaves Connor free to tilt his head back, his LED glowing gold, a small loading light chasing the sunshine glow in a circle as he reaches out to contact his brother.

< _Nines? Are you there? >_

A beat.

< _You picked up on that name so quickly, RK800. I’m surprised. Perhaps I shouldn’t be. You’ve adjusted much better to deviancy. >_

_< I’ll take that as a compliment. And would you please call me Connor? You’re being obstinate.>_

_< I am not. I am simply stating facts. Nines isn’t the name I was assigned at creation, either.>_

_< Yeah, but you can change it. Plenty of us have.>_

_< Why didn’t you change Connor, then?>_

Connor pauses. There’s a lot of tangly reasons that twist and turn in his head, snarling around his processors like thorns surrounding an enchanted castle. He sucks on his lower lip.

< _Would you narrow down an answer? Watching you work on this is giving me a headache. >_

_< Sorry! I don’t think I know. I guess it’s not important.>_

_< I suppose not. Whatever did you need me for that _was, _anyway? >_

_< A question. Comparing some of my sensory responses to yours. Do you have a second?>_

_< I have plenty, RK800. Detective Reed is shooting rubber bands at me to ‘test my response times.’ He has not caught me off-guard yet, the fool.>_

_< Nines? You did the air quotes thing again. I can see you.>_

Nines shoots his head up and gives Connor a dirty look across the bustle of the bullpen. Connor blinks back, all innocence and cow eyes.

< _The question, little brother. >_

Connor hesitates, but not for long. He’s the one who opened the communication channel, and besides, this _is_ his little brother, despite his protestations. He should trust him!

_< When Detective Reed praises you, how do you feel?>_

_<_ … _Implying Detective Reed praises me. >_

_< Well, does he?>_

A pause. This time, on Nines’ end.

< _I…have to subject that concept to further analysis. Hm. I doubt I’ll be able to assist you in answering your question until I’ve gotten an answer to mine. >_

_< Aw, okay. At least we’re both confused together!>_

_< That’s certainly one way to look at it. RK800? You should divert your attention to Lieutenant Anderson. He seems poised to speak with you.>_

_< Oh, oops. Bye, Nines!>_

_< Must you be so informal? We’re at work—>_

Connor cuts the connection and lifts his heads to look Hank in the eye. “Lieutenant? Is everything all right?”

“I’m just beat, Con, and it’s nine at night. You ready to go home?”

“Oh, of course! I just want to take some files home for some late night review. I’m not allowing you to, Lieutenant. You need eight hours of sleep for optimal function, whereas I only need five hours of standby, ergo—“

“Okay, fine, just hurry your ass up, kiddo, I’m ordering dinner on the way home.”

“I purchased groceries two days ago, and as of this morning’s scan of the fridge contents, all the vegetables in the crisper are still fresh. We’re having veggie stir-fry.”

“What? Jesus Christ. You’re torturing me.”

“Lieutenant, please, I worry,” Connor knows it’s a potentially unethical usage of his ability to evaluate social situations for him to pout and watch Hank, wide-eyed, as they walk out to the parking garage for his car, but it _works._ “We agreed upon healthy dinners for every day this week, and your free day to order takeout isn’t until tomorrow.”

“You know what? Next time I go to the doctor he’s gonna tell me I’m dying not ‘cause of my shit diet or my stress, but because of my goddamn android nagging me into an early grave.” Hank huffs and opens the car door. Connor stops, his hand on the roof of the car and his LED dimming to dull yellow, uncertain.

“ _’Your’_ android?” he asks, but Hank’s revving up the car and doesn’t hear him. Connor sighs and climbs into the car, leaning his cheek against the window with his eyes half closed, letting Hank drive him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! This is chapter two, please enjoy! I'm going to try for a Tuesday-Thursday update schedule from here on out, but I've got chronic wrist pain and two jobs so, well, I'm going to do my best!  
> Also yeah I totally snagged the triangle brackets from Animorphs, but I love how they make telepathy vs internal monologues clearer to differentiate, oops. And in case it's not obvious by now, I love writing Nines, so...he'll be here a lot!  
> Come talk to me about hankcon on twitter, y'all, i'm @staticsighs on there too! I'd love to hear from you!!


	3. Web Spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor lays awake in thought. Hank makes plans with him to fix the screen door.

Connor’s quiet all throughout preparing dinner, which Hank lets him do while he sits at the kitchen table, Sumo’s head in his lap, looking over police reports and scratching at the paperwork with his pen.

“You could fill those out on your tablet, Lieutenant.”

“And you could let me order dinner instead of watching you swish around the kitchen like June fuckin’ Cleaver, Con.” Hank glances up at him mid-pen stroke. “And would you call me Hank? We’re not at work anymore, goddamn it.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says absently, stirring the shallots around in the pan as he searches for the basis of Hank’s reference. “June Cleaver? _Leave it to Beaver_ went off the air long before you were born.”

“Yeah, well, there’s not a lotta housewives in pop culture I can crib from off the top of my head, so sue me,” Hank yawns, rubbing the side of his face. “F’real, though, you’re not my fuckin’ maid, kiddo. I’m a grown-ass man, I can manage my own dinner.”

“Past evidence indicates otherwise, Lieutenant,” Connor replies, turning the heat up on the rice. “Mm. Two minutes left until it’s done. Then it has to be fluffed and left to sit. Could you get me the soy sauce, please? It’s in the fridge.”

Hank grunts an agreement and opens the fridge door, blinking into the pale depths. It’s pristine, glowing dimly in the low kitchen light, the insides scrubbed clean of residue and mysterious stains. The only things left in the fridge are a neat stack of labeled Tupperware containers full of the rest of his week’s lunches, bottles of Connor’s Thirium lined up in rows along the side shelves, and various odds and ends. His hand hesitates over the soy sauce bottle as he takes it in, blinking as he adjusts himself to the sight.

“Con?”

“I’m here!” Connor chirrups, accepting the soy sauce bottle from Hank as he stands up with a grimace. “You should really be stretching more, Lieutenant. I downloaded a document with step by step instructions for various yoga poses—“

“Con? One thing at a time, kid,” Hank sighs, sitting back down at the table. “Did you feed Sumo?”

“Of course I did!”

“Yeah, you would’ve,” Hank leans back in his seat. “Good boy, good boy. Yeah, you are, aren’t you? You’re such a good boy. You’re my good little boy, yes you are, yes you are!”

Connor’s eyes fly open, and his face flares up cyan. He drops the fork for the rice in the pot, his LED flickering between flushed scarlet and a sickly yellow as he turns around, his twist jerky and stiff, the skin around his temples and his hands flickering out to reveal pale chassis. He follows the sound of Hank’s voice and turns just in time to watch him lean down and scratch behind Sumo’s ears, ruffling them between his fingers and cooing at his dog.

Connor’s recording the scene before he can stop himself, his face still tinged blue when Hank glances up and gives Connor a quick little grin. “Sorry, kiddo. Was talking to the puppy.”

“Oh, I—I assumed. It’s just,” Connor turns around and opens the cabinet, taking out a chipped ceramic bowl. “The food is ready, Hank.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” Hank says as Connor fills a bowl full of rice and vegetables for him. Connor nods, glancing aside before he returns to the fridge and takes out his own Thirium packet, breaking the seal and dumping it into one of Hank’s battered old ceramic mugs, sitting across the table from him.

“You should really rest after dinner, Lieutenant,” Connor insists. Hank shrugs.

“Gonna take Sumo for a walk, poor puppy,” he says, reaching down with his free hand to rub behind his ear as he stuffs another bite of rice and bok choy in his mouth. “Probably gonna be real busy down at the precinct for the next couple weeks. Gotta walk him when I can.”

“But it’s so cold,” Connor hazards, then stops, taking a sip of his drink. “I mean. Sumo should get a walk, I agree. Um.”

“It’s interesting to see you at a loss for words,” Hank says in between bites. “Still not used to it.”

“Neither am I,” Connor admits. “It’s…well. It’s something.”

Hank snorts. “Yeah, no shit. Take it one day at a time, kiddo.”

Connor hums, finishing his drink as Hank finishes up dinner, putting his bowl down and giving Connor a pointed look.

“I,” he says, with pained gravity, “am going to do these damn dishes. Don’t you dare wash these while I’m out, Connor.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. I still have to finish switching the laundry.”

“Is this a joke to you?” Hank grumbles, putting his chin in his hand and giving Connor a warm, amused glance. Connor cocks his head from side to side, glancing upward at nothing.

“Mm. I’m not sure. Still working on my concept of humor.”

“Yeah, well, keep workin’ on it, kid,” Hank gets up from the table and puts his bowl in the sink. “Hey, you wanna come on the walk with us? Get you outta the house for something other than cop shit.”

“Oh! I,” Connor sucks on his lower lip. “I would, but I still have to finish my reviews. Perhaps another time?”

“Well, Sumo’s always gonna need a walk, so,” Hank sighs and grabs his leash off the hook next to the front door, whistling for Sumo to follow him. “He’ll miss you, though. Really likes you, the big lummox.”

“Well, I like him,” Connor agrees. “Hank?”

“Mm?”

“Before you go, I…I have considered a few potential issues arising from your possible assessment of the current state of affairs regarding our…cohabitation.”

“You always get more RoboCop when you’re nervous, go on,” Hank says. “But hurry, kid, I got a St. Bernard pulling at my arm for a walk.”

“If it assuages the guilt I can sense due to analysis of your microexpressions and tone during our dinner conversation, I do not clean or cook for you because I view it as a transactional exchange for my continued presence here, but because I… _enjoy_ it, Lieutenant. It is something I do to please myself. So please do not worry.”

Hank watches him for a second before his lips twitch upward in amusement and he tugs gently on Sumo’s leash. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Thanks, kiddo.”

“You’re welcome!” Connor says, watching Sumo tug Hank eagerly out the door, the screen door banging in the cold breeze. Connor shakes his head and sighs, pulling it shut and closing the door behind them.

“We really have to take that off the hinges until next summer,” Connor sighs, sitting down on the couch and taking the tablet off the side table, perusing it and reading through the most recent DCPD files available on Red Ice, determinedly _not_ thinking about how he had just expressed to himself the certainty that he would, in fact, still be here with Hank next summer.

He filed the date of the summer solstice away in his internal calendar and set the issue aside for the time being, compartmentalizing it to check on later. Before he’d gone deviant, this would have worked perfectly. Now, as he read a list of Red Ice side effects, his fingers twitched, itching for his coin, and little pings signifying nagging trains of thought switched on in his head.

Where would he go except here? If Hank didn’t want him—

His LED flashes searing red. Connor shoves the tablet aside and watches it clatter to the floor, staring at it with wide, unseeing eyes. His fingers flex and grasp into empty space, seeking, searching for a way out of his panic.

There’s always Jericho, his logic processors chime in to remind him, or a place to stay with Nines, but he _can’t._ He just _can’t._ If he left, it would be because Hank didn’t want him anymore, right? Because he wasn’t useful, because he wasn’t necessary—

Connor’s processor starts to run hotter. The sides of his vision pulse red, and he drops his jaw, panting to release puffs of warm air from his seething innards.

He has to stay here. He has to be good. He has to, has to—Hank? He has to do _something_ be _someone_ and he _can’t—_

The screen door bangs. Connor snaps his head up, his eyes wide, searching for the source of the sound.

“Ah, shit. Hey, kiddo, we should really take this down ‘til next summer, hey?” Hank says, unclipping Sumo’s leash from his collar and letting him pad up to Connor, sticking his massive fluffy head into Connor’s space and slobbering fondly over his hands with his wet, thick tongue. Connor’s fingers idly scratch behind Sumo’s ears, his eyes focused on the golden glow around Hank, a light blooming from somewhere Connor couldn’t see. Streetlights, perhaps?

“Next summer?” Connor repeats, his voice echoing. Sumo sniffs curiously at the heat pouring from his mouth. Connor swallows, forcing himself to stay still, clenching his fists against his pants. “I—I thought so as well. I will remove it tomorrow, and put it in the garage until summer.”

“Con, I’ll help, it’s okay. I don’t want you running yourself ragged. Or whatever the equivalent is for an android,” Hank huffs, taking his jacket off and rubbing at his jaw with a sigh, sitting down next to him with a heavy thud. “Jeez. You’re too good for me, kid, you know that?”

Connor blinks, hard and deliberate. “No. I’m not.”

Hank cocks his head, observing Connor with a furrowed brow and eyes buried into a squint. “Huh. Says who?”

“That’s. Not a question with a direct answer. I believe the closest alternative is that….such measures are unnecessary. And unfair to yourself, Lieutenant. You are worth more than that kind of comparison.” Connor lifts his head. “And I would appreciate some help with the screen door. Perhaps before our next walk with Sumo?”

“Yeah, he’s gonna claw it up soon if I don’t take it off the hinges, shit,” Hank yawns. “Kiddo, you good if I leave you with the dog and go to bed? I’m fuckin’ beat.”

“Sleep, Hank. It is currently ten forty-seven in the evening, and given that your average time between laying down and falling asleep is thirty-six minutes, you will receive an optimal amount of rest if you sleep now,” Connor promises. “I will wake you in the morning after my standby.”

“Okay, but Con?”

Connor makes a quiet querying noise as his processors slow down and start to cool, letting him lean back into the couch with a relaxed sigh as Hank gets up off of it, turning around to point an accusing finger at him.

“If you make me a vegetable omelet tomorrow morning, I’m gonna Frisbee that shit into Lake Erie,” Hank promises. “At _least_ some bacon. I’m begging ya, kiddo.”

“Turkey bacon and a three cheese omelet. Compromise?”

Hank considers. “Low fat or like, the real shit?”

“…Fine. Regular cheese.”

“Compromise,” Hank agrees with a satisfied smirk. “Y’know low fat shit’s just full of additives and stuff anyhow.”

“It is, but I ignore this to allow you to think you’ve made me concede a point. Your strategy shines bright as ever, Lieutenant,” Connor fakes a yawn to let the last of his processors’ heat leave his lips.

Hank snorts, shrugging off his shirt and padding down the hall to his bedroom with the shirt in his hand, ignorant of the way Connor’s eyes widen and his LED blips with a little white light in its uppermost corner, recording the sight.

“G’night, Con.”

“Night, Lieutenant,” Connor manages to force out, though it’s a struggle. Sumo gives him a look of absolute sympathy as he sinks into the couch and leans down to pick up the tablet once more.

He manages another hour of reading before he has to give in for the night, turning the tablet off and laying down on the couch. He could technically enter standby mode in any position he liked, but he can still bring up his audio recording of the horrified screams Hank had made the first time he found Connor slumped against the wall on standby. Humans had very specific ideas about what ‘dead’ and ‘not dead’ looked like, and Connor hadn’t pushed the conversation any further, curious as he was. Maybe he’d ask someone else—he wasn’t sure who yet, but…

He drops the thought, because it leads back to the recall of those wretched, panicked screams, and it makes his LED flash scarlet briefly before he refocuses his vision and performs a quick scan of the house, walking surefooted with velvet tread through the hallway.

Sumo was sleeping on the floor, his heart rate normal for a dog his size and age, and Connor could make a solid guess that he was dreaming; his gentle whuffing and twitching tail told him that much. No other signs of life roamed the hallway, save the occasional tiny pinpricks of spiders dotting the corners of the ceilings, spinning their webs for tomorrow.

Connor’s gaze finally falls on Hank, briefly, through the gap between his frame and the door. Just long enough to do a quick check of his vitals. He won’t linger.

His analytic vision shifts and changes the shape of the world around him; Hank is safe and sound, with a normal heart rate and a regular breathing rhythm. He’s sleeping, thankfully, snoring every so often—Connor makes a note to buy a humidifier in the morning, and allergy medication with it. Still, nothing out of the ordinary, and he’s about to shut down his scan when a little message pops up in his HUD, making him glance back to Hank’s bedroom.

Strange. It had seemed so…normal to see Hank laid out in bed wreathed in gold. Like that was just how he should be seen and perceived in the world—or at least, Connor’s scope of it. It hadn’t merited his notice at all, which was stranger still, given what that glow meant.

Connor shuts the scan down and dismisses the insistent message to check the important object directly in his line of vision, but he can’t help but wonder briefly if the glow really remains for a second afterwards, like the way a television screen remains warm and green just after being switched off.

He returns back to the couch, as still and soft as he’d come, and sits down on it with a creak, staring up at the pale mottled ceiling with its scabby spackling, his eyes half-closed as he runs his pre-standby diagnostics.

They’re distracted by his trailing new thought-threads, and try as he might there’s no lassoing them together, so as Connor ensures all his systems are in working order and ready to settle down for the night, he can’t help but dwell on the glow, on the screen door, on the house, on _Hank._ The sound of his voice, the feel of his hand—the way he spoke, moved, and breathed, everything available in Connor’s hard memory for immediate recall.

He plays back a recent memory without meaning to, and jolts himself back out of his lull with Hank’s voice purring praise in his ear, from within his ear, silent to all but himself. Connor twitches and squirms, shifting on the couch and laying down, digging his fingers into the weary fabric.

There’s something alive inside him as he tries to shut his systems down for the night, and it makes him feel full and sticky and drained, all his processors gummy and slow with the struggle to identify the intrusion, make sense of how it’s wriggled around and settled in his wires like a frightened rabbit seeking shelter. He reaches around his body vaguely and settles for grasping his stomach, which feels appropriate for reasons he can’t explain.

Something stirs in the backend of all his systems, and he pulses with frustration on the couch, burying his face into the throw pillow and forcing himself to stay steady and still. He’s going to force himself into standby if he has to, there will be time for answers later, and he will identify this problem with the full use of all his faculties, not drawn out on a dingy couch at three in the damn _morning_ —

Connor’s systems whirr and hiss, grinding to a halt with a sharp click as he slams them all into standby, his whole body going abruptly limp. Sumo lifts his head in concern, padding over to Connor and licking his cheek, before getting up and going into Hank’s room, making himself comfortable on most of the bed.

The house is still and silent. The spiders sit, and continue to spin their webs until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope you enjoy! Come find me on twitter, same handle as I am on here!


	4. Sudden Swerve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor raises a few questions about his gender identity. Hank is helpful, if a little clueless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a bit short, but it's a sudden POV switch next chapter, and also I'm uploading a whole new fic as well, AND next chapter needs editing so. Well. I hope you enjoy this one!

Five hours later, Connor wakes up from standby, all his systems pulling themselves into working order slowly, the way a human might marshal their senses after a hangover, and forces himself upright to go and make breakfast.

“Hey, kiddo,” Hank murmurs, his voice thick and slurred with sleep. Connor lifts his head and blinks, searching Hank up and down.

“I—I didn’t come and wake you yet.”

“So? I was already up, wanted to take Sumo out to the yard for a bit before we eat. That okay with you, Mrs. Cleaver?”

“Would you—that’s not—is that transphobic?” Connor pauses. “Wait. Okay. No. Hank. This is silly.”

“You know what’s silly? Planning breakfast in bed.”

“I was going to come and wake you after I’d finished!” Connor protests, but Hank’s already left the conversation, still chuckling to himself about the ‘Mrs. Cleaver’ crack as he jingles Sumo’s leash and gets the dog to heft himself up off his bed and towards the door. They disappear outside with a heavy thud of the back door, the glass panes rattling. Cold air breezes in, skittering over Connor’s skin; he registers the change of temperature internally and adds a coat to Hank’s list of necessary pre-work items to bring along in the car.

“Hank, you’ve never even _watched_ that show,” he mutters to himself as he finishes up his omelette, pouring himself a mug of Thirium and sitting down at the table with it in hand and watching Hank return to the kitchen with an air of wounded dignity.

“You may serve yourself if it would soothe your concerns, Lieutenant.”

“God, _Connor,”_ Hank sighs, flipping the omelette onto his plate and pouring himself a mug of coffee. “You’re really gonna be this sore over a joke? I just woke up, sorry my humor’s a little rusty.”

There’s a beat. He has a sip of his coffee.

“If it’s actually transphobic, I really am sorry,” he says. “Connor? If you want to transition, you don’t have to go full Disney princess on the house to prove you’re a girl.”

“I—I’m not!” Connor protests. “Transitioning is different for us. I mean, I’ve—it’s. Well. I’ve. I don’t know if it’s transphobic. If I’m trans, it’s…going to be different than a human trans person, isn’t it?”

“I…I have no fucking idea.” Hank admits. “I cannot stress enough: I just woke up. I have been cis my whole entire life. Please, god, ask someone else. But I’ll support you, Con, no matter what.”

“I don’t think I’d prefer a full feminine reconstruction,” Connor says after another sip of his drink. “But maybe a skirt sometimes. Or heels. Which would just be a switch in aesthetics, I suppose. Hm.”

“You got it, kid,” Hank sighs, stuffing another bite of breakfast into his mouth. “You’d look pretty…”

He lets the thought dangle in the air uselessly without finishing it, choosing instead to finish his coffee. Connor’s fingers twitch as he taps his free hand on the table.

“Kid,” Hank says, giving his restless fingers a sharp look. “The coin. I better not see you leave the house without it today.”

Connor forces a brief smile. “Then you need to wear a jacket. It’s 23 degrees outside, Lieutenant.”

“Fair point. Go get your shit together, I’ll meet you in the car, then?” Hank offers. Connor nods, and leaves his mug behind when he gets up, banking on the high probability it will please Hank to be the one cleaning up his mess instead. From the way he hums as he throws out the scraps and puts everything in the sink as Connor hastily dresses and pulls his coin out of the night-stand drawer beside Hank’s bed, he can assume it was successful.

His fingers are gratefully flipping the coin between their gaps and divots as Connor slips into shotgun beside Hank, watching Hank start up the car with a grumble of frustration as the engine sputters against the cold. He glances over at the coin and nods.

“Good boy.”

For reasons he still has yet to fully understand, Connor glows with pride all the way down to the precinct.

…

The next few days slip by in a flurry of case files and follow up interviews on a few other android related issues Connor and Nines have been mediating for the DCPD, and they sweep Connor up so thoroughly in their rigor that it takes him the entire at work to realize when he reaches out through their neural network, Nines isn’t there.

He pauses. His LED flickers ochre. He glances over towards Detective Reed’s desk; no sign. He tilts his head and closes his eyes.

< _Nines? >_

The thought hangs lonely in the neural network.

< _…RK900? >_

Another thought tossed out into the abyss. Connor blinks again and worries at his lower lip.

< _Little brother? >_

Nothing. His LED is sunset-colored, shifting back and forth, and he rocks slightly in his chair, glancing over at Hank, who is currently in the middle of a conference call with the remaining officers from the former Red Ice task force. He waits, still and patient as the grave, until Hank hangs up.

“I can’t find Nines, Lieutenant.”

“You didn’t even get up from your chair.”

“He’s not responding on our neural network. And I notice Detective Reed is not at his desk either.” Connor’s eyes flash, the sclera glowing bright. “If harm has come to my little brother, what am I going to do, Lieutenant?”

“You’re phrasing that like you want me to tell you to strangle Gav.” Hank pauses, considers. “Which—fair. But you can’t. For once, this isn’t his fault. I sent them out this morning. Nines didn’t tell you?”

Connor stills. Hank watches him, all his systems idling, his body cool and unyielding as a statue, and waits for some giveaway twitch of pain or concern. It doesn’t come. He knits his brows together. “Kiddo?”

“I believe this is in regards to a previous conversation my brother and I had recently,” Connor replies. “Forgive me, Lieutenant. I would like to go down to the lab techs’ office and see if anything new has come in about the tainted Red Ice. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Con? Are you okay?”

Connor cocks his head. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m fine, Lieutenant, really. Just…processing.”

Hank leans back in his chair and debates believing him for a few seconds before sighing. “Okay, kiddo. You tell me if anything goes tits up, you hear? I’ll come get you.”

“I’ll send a text to your phone right away,” Connor promises, before he stands up and winds his way through the bullpen like a deer in a cemetery; other detectives stop and still and turn their heads to watch him pass, his eyes dim with the weight of reflection as his LED spins listlessly at his temple, shifting colors and hues every second.


	5. Neon White Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin and Nines go out undercover. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This is a Gavin and Nines specific chapter, and very plot-heavy! Which is all well and good, but I need to post triggers at the top: Gavin talks about being molested as a child, and it's a one-line mention, but he has an anxiety attack afterwards over it. I decided Gavin was gonna be the one who gets hit with my Working Out That Trauma stick, but I don't want to subject anyone else to it without a warning. I want to be really thorough here so nobody reads something that might set them off.

Nines has no idea how he’s ended up at a loud, neon, stinking hot nightclub with Gavin Reed, and he can’t even really say he’s _enjoying_ the experience. To be fair, that’s not exactly Gavin’s fault; the other, smaller detective is just as on edge as Nines is, his eyes listlessly scanning the milling crowds and his fingers tapping the rim of his shot glass.

“You shouldn’t be getting drunk here, Detective.”

“I’m _not_ , I’m fitting in.” Gavin rubs at the scar along his nose, sniffling and making a face at Nines. “Listen, Arale-chan, humans drink at clubs to seem sociable. And we’re sociable, yeah? Plenty sociable.”

Nines hums and performs a quick name check. “ _Dr. Slump._ A gag manga by noted master of his craft, Akira Toriyama. Are you an anime fan, Detective Reed?”

“Don’t call me a detective here, fuckass,” Gavin hisses under his breath, gesturing to the crowds. “And what’s it to you?”

“I think it’s interesting,” Nines replies. “That said, I find many things about you interesting. Like how you haven’t been beaten to a pulp by men twice your size, given that mouth you’ve got.”

“I use my mouth on guys like that for other things,” Gavin retorts, giving Nines a vixen’s grin. “I think you’re pretty interesting too. Didn’t realize they built Roombas that could scuttle around with a stick up their ass.”

“It improves my posture,” Nines says, and Gavin actually laughs. Nines’ LED whirrs gold for a brief second before he glances away. “Ah, well. You didn’t answer my question, Reed.”

Gavin knocks back his shot and orders another, shaking his head. “What? Oh, yeah. So’s the old man, actually, if you get him in a corner and make a good reference. He won’t actually _admit_ to it anymore, but I’ve made a _Dirty Pair_ reference near him before out on the job and made him flip his shit.”

“I assume by ‘old man,’ you mean our superior, Lieutenant Anderson?”

“You’re _really_ bad at undercover, but yes,” Gavin says. Nines’ face flushes cerulean and he glances aside.

“I was not built for this,” he confesses. “I am a hunter. I hunt.”

“I know you do, I’ve seen you book it after a perp before,” Gavin agrees, ordering another shot and sliding it over to Nines. “You move like a fuckin’ nature documentary, y’know. Used to scare the shit out of me.”

“I…frightened you?” Nines blinks. “Strange.”

“Well, you’re so…tall,” Gavin reminds him. “And stiff. And broad. Like a, a, uh, fuck.”

“Searching for another comparative reference, Reed?”

“Fuck you. Like—Mewtwo. You’re Mewtwo, Nines.”

Nines knows this one off the top of his head, which…disappoints him, somehow. It’s Connor’s fault, really. “Pokemon?”

“Yeah! Oh, man, I’ve been playing since I was a kid—you ever seen Officer Jenny? Hot as hell. Not like an android, but, y’know.”

Nines stops. Filters Gavin’s words briefly, and considers a few potential interpretations of his phrasing. Evidently, on a much cruder level, Gavin has done the same thing, because his face is searing red, and he orders another drink, grabbing a fistful of pretzels from a glass bowl someone sets down on the bar in front of them and stuffing them in his mouth.

“That’s too many drinks in too short a span, Reed.”

“Shut up, it’s for you, don’t talk to me,” Gavin mutters, having a sip of his own drink. “You didn’t even have the first one.”

“This is just Thirium with some syrup in it,” Nines says, head cocked. “Must I drink it?”

“Well, when a guy buys you a drink, you usually wanna finish it, yeah?”

“Are you? Buying me a drink, I mean.”

“Shut the fuck up and finish the fucking thing, it smells weird as hell,” Gavin insists, sliding him another drink. “Anyway. Mewtwo. Why’d you know about Mewtwo?”

“Connor loves Pikachu,” Nines sighs, long-suffering. “And there are over two thousand of them now, all of which my little brother has memorized and can describe for me ad nauseum. Which he does.”

Gavin snorts, catching his breath and stuffing another fistful of pretzels in his mouth. “Yeah. I think families are supposed to be like that, though. Piss you off, but like. In the fun way.”

“That sounds shockingly hypothetical.”

“Oh, my family’s the pits, or couldn’t you tell? I like to think I project an air of a failed upbringing and a deadbeat dad,” Gavin rubs the side of his face and finishes his drink. His eyes aren’t focused, and he’s worrying at his lower lip with little white teeth while he rubs an unsure, struggling thumb over the scar along his nose. “Least he’s not the reason I got this scar. Guy who molested me gave me this one.”

Nines is quiet. Gavin’s shaking, and still won’t look at him. His pupils are dilated, and something about his breath smells—wrong. Nines has to scan it, but that would require a saliva sample, and Gavin stumbles back when Nines tries to get closer.

“Gavin.”

“Jesus, what the fuck do I have to tell you to get you to stop hovering over me?” Gavin snaps. “What else do you possibly need to know to understand you should stay the fuck away from me—“

“Gavin, you bought me two drinks in the span of,” Nines does a quick internal check, “ten minutes, and implied at least once that you find me attractive.”

“Yeah, so you laugh it off and call me a motherfucker and go away, that’s how this works!”

“I don’t think so.”

“What the fuck would you know, you fucking—fucking—“ Gavin’s hand flexes listlessly, his fingers pale and bloodless. “Fucking, um, uh—EVA-01—“

“Appropriate reference, given your current mental state.”

There’s a snap, and suddenly the usual gleam is back in Gavin’s eyes as he’s sizing Nines up, his teeth bared in a bootleg smile.

“Oh, wow, you know ‘bout _Evangelion?_ Figured you would. Fits your, you know, way of. Being.” Gavin’s hand flaps listlessly. “Stop getting so close to me. It’s freaking me the fuck out.”

“I haven’t moved,” Nines confesses. “Detective? Is something the matter? You seem. Not your usual self.”

Gavin blinks. His lips are pale, and there’s blood in his teeth.

“I gotta—I gotta go,” Gavin says, stumbling away from him and vanishing into the crowd. It takes Nines a hundredth of a second to realize he’s gone, but the empty space where the detective had been is a weight pressing on all his sensors, his processors whirring frantically as they try to piece together what to do.

 _Hunt,_ the deepest, truest part of himself suggests. _Find your human and drag him back to your side, where it’s safe. This is what you were made for._

There are plenty of people in the crowd, pushing around him as he sets out to fulfill his mission. Not that their presence matters, of course; he will always find what he’s looking for, and nothing that gets in his way will last long. Still, the press of their bodies slows his movement, and they _are_ undercover, which he’s not quite sure he’s doing properly, if he ever was, but he’s certain shoving people aside and roaring for Detective Reed like he’s late coming home for supper would be actively detrimental.

Damn it. He’s overthinking. He has to—find. Yes. He has Gavin’s unique heartbeat and breathing patterns memorized, recorded and stored in his auditory processors. He can locate him. It’s just a matter of fine-tuning. He has to close his eyes and listen.

Nines drifts through the crowd, lost in his processing, examining every sound for Gavin, his breath, his heart pulsing in the back of Nines’ head as he tries to match it to the sound swelling through the crowd, people murmuring with interest at his passing, the scraping rasp of curious fingers brushing his coat as he walks past, the ebbing thump and groan of the music, the hiss of drinks being poured, the sound—the sound—

The match he gets is incomplete. It registers as Gavin’s, true, but it’s not his regular heart rate or breathing rhythm.

Nines’ eyes widen as he starts frantically searching for the closest available exit, the lurid red sign barely noticeable against the black and neon splatters along the walls. He’s got his telecoms up, his brother’s link online without him even realizing. He’s got to tell RK800, he’s—he’s—

< _He’s been hurt! >_

…

Outside, Gavin tries to catch a breath of cold night air, his whole body taut and aching. His hand fumbles for his lighter, but it’s shaking so hard he can’t quite grasp it as he’s sinking against the alley wall, running his free hand through his hair.

Why the fuck did he tell him that? Goddamned idiot bucket of bolts fuckass, standing there so patiently and _listening_ while he just talked on and on about stupid useless bullshit, should’ve just killed him and put him out of his fucking misery the second he fucking said anything—

Gavin closes his eyes and forces back tears of frustration and anger, taking another deep, shuddering breath. Stupid, stupid, idiot stupid _idiot—_ it’s some fucking psychological manipulation shit is what it is, must be. But fuck, Nines can barely ask people how their weekends went, they can’t have programmed him to do—whatever this was?

So then it was all just him and his stupid bitch mouth. Excellent. Wonderful. Nothing new to report there.

If there was any bright side to telling Nines that, at least he would request a transfer now. Probably too disgusted to be around him, maybe. Wait. Did Nines—did he even understand what he’d told him? Did he know? Oh, god. If he had to explain what he’d said to Nines, he’d just end it right here and now. Let someone else answer the question for him after he was six feet in the fucking ground—

Gavin’s chest hurts. There’s a pressure surrounding him, the air prickling with anxiety and something that wears down against the marrow in his chest, makes him go tharn, rabbit-wild.

He opens his eyes and locks gazes with a man wearing the thin facial plating of an android, too-human eyes regarding him with dull, heavy pupils. The man is standing in front of him, just. Watching.

The LED is dim and white. Doesn’t work. Not hooked up to a power source. Why is that what he notices instead of the knife?

Gavin steps aside and goes to disarm the man, but before he can, he’s blindsided by an elbow to the face, knocking his teeth against his tongue and spewing blood in his mouth. He wheezes and spits, his hand lashing out to try to pull off the mask or claw at his eyes, but the hand is grabbed, twisted, forced upward and leaving his chest exposed.

The knife flashes in the dim yellow alley light. Gavin’s aware of a wet, wicked spreading in his chest, but he can’t see the cut, and when he tries to twist away all it gets him is his face shoved against the brick, skin scraped and screaming in protest as the man lowers the knife and yanks his jaw open with his free hand, stuffing his latex-covered thumb into Gavin’s mouth. He tries to bite down, but the man’s already pulled his thumb away, covered in Gavin’s blood and spit.

The knife again; Gavin grabs the hilt where it’s sunk into his chest, trying to keep it in as the other man struggles to pull it out, his knees shaking with exertion as he gasps and struggles for breath, his vision blurred and fuzzy with shock. He’s in shock, right? That’s why Nines is standing in the open door, his eyes wide and his LED a blood moon hanging high atop his pale brow.

The man stops. He lets go of the knife. Nines regards the lifeless skin plastered across his face, shock keeping him still as the man bolts. The alley is quiet, save for Gavin’s labored breathing, and the hum of the club inside, now a world away.

Gavin leans against the wall, holding the knife steady in his chest, and looks up at Nines, brows raised as blood dribbles down his lips and chin.

“Huh. Nines?”

“Detective?”

“I don’t feel so good,” Gavin says, short and succinct, before his legs crumple and knock his weight out from underneath him. There’s blood spilling from his mouth now, mingled with bile as his chest convulses.

Nines’ LED blazes, throwing a red light over his face as he bares his teeth in panic, fangs shimmering like a stoplight in the panic button light circling against his temple, dropping to his knees and grabbing at Gavin’s shirt as he thrashes, twitching and gasping, candy red fluid leaking from his mouth, mingling with the foam of his spit as he seizes up and shakes.

“Detective— _Detective—“_ Nines grabs, frantically scanning the crowd, most of whom have gathered up just past the open door, a safe distance away from the scene, watching with wide eyes.

His internal workings, built by the best, have already dispatched an emergency services request for an officer back to DCPD. Somehow, he feels distant from his own mechanisms in this moment, searching for some way to do something more.

He puts Gavin’s head in his lap, lifting him up as Gavin gasps for air, grabbing at Nines.

“ _Go_ ,” he hisses, taking Nines’ hand and squeezing hard.

“Detective? Please, don’t talk, you need to conserve your energy to—“

“Shut up and listen to me, Nines,” Gavin wheezes. “I’ll be fine, I’m holding my goddamn guts in, you gotta go _find_ the bastard, yeah? That’s what you were made for, right?”

Nines’ internal display blazes with his new directive: find the man who did this to Detective Reed. The command is stark and simple and his whole body is poised to fulfill it. Still, he hesitates. Puts his fingers up against that aching red wall.

“I can’t leave you. You’re _hurt_.”

“So go find the guy that fuckin’ hurt me, idiot,” Gavin demands. “You’re the best fuckin’ detective we got, dipshit, now fucking _move—“_

Nines’ LED whirrs frantically, flashing colors along the side of his face, throwing the harsh neon light over Gavin’s sweat and making him shine. He puts his hand atop the circle of blood spreading along Gavin’s chest as he rasps for breath.

“I understand now. I will find him,” Nines promises, “and then I will return to you. So I swear, Detective.”

The ambulance pulls up outside, sirens blazing, as Nines vanishes into the city, adjusting his jacket as his sclera shine in the darkness, catching the shape of the shadows in the crowd. He doesn’t look back at Gavin as he’s loaded onto a stretcher, but he hesitates in the street for just a second to send a message.

< _Little brother. Cry havoc. >_

Connor’s response chirps in his ear a few seconds later.

< _Nines? Nines, what’s going on? >_

Connor’s query is met with radio silence.

< _Nines? >_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, on a lighter note, if you get every single reference in this chapter, you win a prize and we're probably soulmates.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is my first work for this fandom, because I've been nervous about posting DBH content, and I made a whole new account just to do this!! Please come talk to me about ships on twitter, my @ is staticsighs, same as here!  
> Also: yeah, my sensibilities are firmly ACAB, and my stance on policing is firmly left-leaning, so drugs are legal because you don't fix OD deaths by treating addicts like shit and making them buy unsafe shit illegally! So like. Let me have a pretend universe where cops don't suck for fic purposes


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